


Far Away, So Close

by verhalen



Series: Northern Lights [6]
Category: Flameborn (Multiverse), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Elves Reborn As Mortal, Gen, Magical Realism, One Shot, Past Lives, Post-Canon, Random Encounters, Reincarnation, The Force, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen
Summary: In London in summer 2001, sixteen-year-old Dagnýr Sigurðsson gets lost and needs directions, getting help from a young officer in the Royal Navy.  What neither of them know is that there is a reason for the officer being protective towards him, that dates back to a past life.One shot gapfiller set in theNorthern Lightsverse.
Relationships: Finarfin | Arafinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: Northern Lights [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300868
Kudos: 17





	Far Away, So Close

**Author's Note:**

> **December 2020 update:** This fic has undergone some minor revisions

**August 2001**  
_London, England_  
  
  
Instead of going back to Iceland for the summer and dealing with his aunt Katrín and uncle Einar, sixteen-year-old Dagnýr Sigurðsson was electing to do a tour of different parts of England - the summer tour funded by his patron, who had elected to stay anonymous. His days in London were winding down - he'd be returning to Oxbridge for another year at Oxford in less than a week. He'd been reserving all the "typical tourist stuff" in London as the grand finale. Today it was Big Ben.  
  
Dagnýr had a lot of anxiety in crowds - and London was _so big_ compared to tiny Akureyri, where he grew up - and Big Ben was flooded with tourists who had rather the same idea he did, wanting to see the famous landmark on a nice, warm sunny day like today. A breeze was keeping the day from being too hot. Dagnýr wore a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a green-and-gold hibiscus-flowered Hawaiian shirt - which probably gave the impression he was from America rather than Iceland - and aviator sunglasses. The cowlick in his short dark hair would not be tamed no matter how much gel he put in his hair, but at least when he put his sunglasses on top of his head, the cowlick was hidden better. He had his camera around his neck and a satchel over one arm.  
  
After Dagnýr had gotten his fill, taking pictures that he'd mail back home to Sören, Ari, and Magnús - _she_ _wants to be called Margrét_, he reminded himself - he made his way through the crowd to check the piece of paper where he'd carefully written down directions to the Doubletree Hotel where he was staying.  
  
As the wind kicked up a little stronger, he was promptly bumped into by a stranger, the jostle hard enough that he let go of the paper, which blew into the wind. "_Ó skít_." Dagnýr chased after it, but then a group of tourists got in his way and he saw the paper blow away and away.  
  
If there hadn't been so many people around, Dagnýr would have simply held his hand out and reached with his mind, pulling the paper back towards him. But he'd learned he couldn't do that, not without causing a scene. So the paper was lost, and with it his directions. With another cry of "_Skít!_" Dagnýr frantically tried to recall the information, but he had _so_ much swimming around in his head, and the anxiety of the swarming crowds was getting to him.  
  
_I need to ask for directions. Surely someone will help me._  
  
Dagnýr swallowed hard. People were scary. He knew logically he might not have his head bitten off if he asked a stranger, but he was still nervous anyway, and some of his experiences throughout his summer travels had informed his caution with strangers, people wary of foreigners and thinking a teenage boy by himself was automatically a hoodlum. He decided to scout to see if anyone looked "nice", like a grandmother type, though he'd found earlier into his stay in London that little old ladies could be nasty too.  
  
Between Big Ben and St. Stephen's Tavern, Dagnýr's eyes settled on a young-looking man - not older than thirty-five, if he had to guess - with warm golden-white hair down to his waist, wearing dark sunglasses and a large ring on his forefinger - an interesting but somewhat creepy design, a spider set with what appeared to be a fire opal. He was tall with a slim build, wearing a long black tunic embroidered with scarlet roses, and black leather pants... and he was feeding pigeons. The man was smiling and talking affectionately to the pigeons. _Yes, he looks safe._ There was something unsettling about him, but how bad could he be if he was feeding pigeons?  
  
Dagnýr made a beeline. "Hi," he said.  
  
"Hello," the man said. He had a very pleasant voice that reminded Dagnýr of a hearth fire in winter for some reason.  
  
"Nice pigeons," Dagnýr said, and then he realized the pigeons were wild and didn't belong to him like a pet or anything, felt dumb, and facepalmed. "Er, sorry. I'm a bit lost and I'm nervous."  
  
"Oh. It's OK."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye Dagnýr saw a small group of men walking out of St. Stephen's Tavern. They were all wearing uniforms that Dagnýr recognized as Royal Navy, having encountered a few officers since starting Oxford. His eyes met the eyes of one of them, green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses like the ones Dagnýr would be wearing if he didn't have shades today, tall, pale, lean and broad-shouldered, short black hair, classically handsome in kind of a bland way. Dagnýr refocused his attention on the man with the long silver ponytail feeding pigeons.  
  
"Can... can you help me? I wrote down directions and a wind blow them. Blew. _Blew._" Dagnýr gave an apologetic smile. "I'm not English, sorry."  
  
"It's fine," the man said.  
  
Dagnýr, who had become quite self-conscious about his accent his last two years in England, was soothed by the gentle voice. The officer he'd glanced at was talking to his friends, saying "I'll meet you in a bit," and now approaching.  
  
"Where are you trying to go?" the long-haired man asked.  
  
"The Doubletree Hotel," Dagnýr said. "I'm walking there -"  
  
"Oh, that's not far, and I'm parked nearby. I can give you a ride."  
  
"That's very nice of you," Dagnýr said, nodding.  
  
"Here, follow me," the man said, and immediately, the officer was in their path.  
  
"Good afternoon," the officer said. He gave the long-haired man a dirty look. Then he looked at Dagnýr. "Pardon me, I couldn't help but overhear you needed directions to the Doubletree?"  
  
"It's really no trouble to drive him," the man said.  
  
"I'm sure." The officer narrowed his eyes. Then he gave Dagnýr a stern look. "I'll give you directions if you'd rather walk there. It's a lovely day, too nice not to walk."  
  
"Jæja..." Dagnýr shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "He offered..."  
  
Somehow, the officer had walked him a few feet away from the long-haired man. He began to speak directions aloud. "OK, you want to turn right towards Parliament Square -"  
  
"Ah... I had directions written down because I forget," Dagnýr said. He had ADHD and writing things down was a necessary survival skill, not that he wanted to disclose all of that to a total stranger.  
  
"Right." The officer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. "I'll write them down twice, so if they blow away again, they're unlikely to blow away a third time, yeah?" He gave Dagnýr a friendly smile.  
  
"Jæja." Dagnýr smiled back, nodding, and then he wondered how the officer had known they'd blown away, since he hadn't heard that part of the exchange, had he? A frisson went down Dagnýr's spine, wondering if the officer was _like him_.  
  
The long-haired man was watching them a few feet away - Dagnýr could _feel_ the eyes watching them - and the officer kept looking back over his shoulder, giving the pigeon-feeder wary looks as he jotted the directions down. Finally the officer said, "You know what, fuck it, I'll walk you there myself. It's not far."  
  
"Are you sure? I don't want to be any trouble -"  
  
"No. You're coming with me." The officer gestured, and like that Dagnýr was following him, and then walking alongside him. The officer was only a couple inches taller but had a long, powerful stride and Dagnýr felt like he had to rush to keep up.  
  
"_Takk_, I really appreciate it," Dagnýr said, holding out his hand. "I'm Dag."  
  
The officer took it, his grip strong, firm. "I'm Anthony." Then he gave Dagnýr a disapproving look. "Where are your parents?"  
  
Dagnýr bristled. "Dead."  
  
Anthony cringed. "Where are your guardians, then?"  
  
"I'm legally emancipated," Dagnýr said, carefully enunciating. At Anthony's surprise, he said, "I go to Oxford."  
  
"_How_ old are you?" Anthony looked incredulous.  
  
"Sixteen -"  
  
"You look younger." Anthony frowned.  
  
Dagnýr bristled again. "I'll be seventeen in November."  
  
"You're also... how are you sixteen and already attending Oxford?"  
  
"I got in at fourteen. I, ah. Was ahead of my class. I'm going to be a scientist. I like physics."  
  
"Well, good on you," Anthony said, nodding. "I just graduated Cambridge. I took languages. It'll help for a career in intelligence."  
  
"Is that why you ask so many questions? You'd make a good lawyer too, asking all these questions."  
  
Anthony laughed softly. "And you're asking me about asking questions."  
  
Dagnýr made a face.  
  
Anthony patted his shoulder. Then he asked, "_Är du från Sverige? Jag talar svenska om det är lättare för dig._"  
  
Dagnýr replied in Danish, his third language. "_Ikke fra Sverige, nej, men det er rart af dig at tilbyde. Jeg er faktisk fra Island._"  
  
"Iceland? That's a small country, isn't it? And very safe."  
  
"Safe enough." Dagnýr shuddered, thinking about the violence of his aunt and uncle that he'd escaped.  
  
"Well, let me give you a piece of advice, Dag," Anthony said. "Don't get in cars with strangers you've known for all of thirty seconds."  
  
Dagnýr bristled again. "What are you, my father?" And then, a moment of levity. "You look like you could be my father, anyway."  
  
Anthony chuckled. "I'm only twenty-one."  
  
"That man back there seemed all right," Dagnýr said.  
  
"Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. My gut feeling told me something was a little off. I don't know what." Anthony shrugged. "I just know that you ought to be more careful."  
  
The hotel really wasn't far - Dagnýr felt like an idiot for needing help getting there, and as if Anthony knew what Dagnýr was thinking, he said, "Don't feel too bad, mate. London is an easy city to get lost in."  
  
"Well, _takk_ again for walking me here and, you know, protecting me from Mr. Stranger Danger."  
  
Anthony laughed. "Duty called."  
  
"Ah... you want to join me for dinner? I'll buy for you, since you helped."  
  
"No, thank you. I have to be on my way, I'm meeting some people -"  
  
"You left them to come help me?"  
  
"I did, but they'll understand."  
  
Dagnýr still felt bad. "I'd still like to repay you for your kindness. I... ah..." He thought for a moment. "Can you get care packages in the service? I'll send you one."  
  
Anthony wrote down some contact info before he left. Dagnýr carefully tucked the slip of paper with a mailing address for one Anthony Hewlett-Johnson into his satchel.  
  
_  
  
  
9/11 happened weeks later, and after the attack in New York City, British security forces were placed on maximum alert, with Tony Blair pledging that the United Kingdom would stand alongside the United States. Dagnýr thought about his sort-of friend in the Royal Navy, knowing the likelihood of him being deployed was very high, and he decided to send the care package sooner than later, a collection of sweets from Iceland that he had imported and a handsome edition of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, since he thought someone who'd taken languages would probably like reading in their spare time and an allegory about another major global conflict might be a nice message of hope.  
  
He never heard back from Anthony, and he wondered if Anthony thought he was a pest, or perhaps worse, if something had happened.  
  
Dagnýr got busy enough with his studies at Oxford to mostly forget about it. Mostly. Years later, during his stint at NASA, he met people who'd been in the US Air Force and Navy, and every time he met an officer he'd wonder if Anthony had made it through the Gulf War, but didn't have the heart to try to look him up on Facebook or something else, in case he hadn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the man feeding the pigeons was (a non-reincarnated) Sauron.


End file.
